Crash
by StrangeLittleSwirl
Summary: Olivia Watson never really thought the stories of Sherlock Holmes were real. But when her car crashes, she ends up in Victorian England . . and into the living room of a famous resident of 221B Baker Street. Happy Holidays, Chap 10!
1. Over the Side

Olivia sighed as she pulled away form HQ. C.S.I. wasn't a job for anyone with a weak stomach. If fact, you couldn't have a stomach.  
Ah, vacation, wonderful vaction. Her hotel room in London was going to be pure bliss compared with the hectic traffic of New York City. She had basicly packed everypiece of her clothing in the trunk of her car.  
She pulled on to the highway in her Mustang. Smiling slightly, she looked at the charm bracelett her best friend and investigation partner, Krysten Marianson, had givin her as a joke birthday present.  
Krys probably didn't think she would appreciate it as much as she did. Having a last name of Watson could be a pretty big detriment on your way up the scale in forensics. The little magnifying glass, deerstalker cap, pen, and book silver charms were a little reminder of what was in her history. Or what might have been her history.  
Recently, some people tearing down a house on Baker street in London had found a journal. It was in the back of the house, away from all the exhibits that now inhabited 221. It seemed to be stuck inside a old case that they had to take to an antique restorer to open due to the state of the case. Olivia deduced that they probably opened it with a "nightingale", so called by turn of the century vandals who used them to break into houses and the sweet sound they made when they banged against eack other.  
The journals, after opened, were from about the 1890's to the 1930's. If they were what they seemed to be, that ment. . .that Sherlock Holmes was real.  
And the piece of torn out paper with a (as she thought) doctor's untidy scroll that she had gotten from an ancestor of hers from the turn of the century was real.  
Thus making it seem like she was an actually, living, breathing, honest-to-goodness Watson. This made her feel very proud.  
Humming to a tune on the radio, she payed the toll for the bridge. "Just another perfect day . . ." she sang insync with the singer.  
Except the day really wasn't.  
Olivia watched as a car switched precariously from one lane to another, and then back. Hope this guy gets pulled over she thought to herself as she glanced forward at the obviously drunk driver.  
And then it happened. He stopped abruptly infront of her. She tried to swerve out of the way.  
Her car slid a quarter of a turn and straught ahead. . . and over the side of the bridge.  
Watson braced herself for the impact, knowing that she'd never have a chance to swim. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and tried to hold on to the last few seconds of her life. "Bye, everybody, I loved you like a sister, Krys. I love you, mom. . . ."  
Thud.  
She waited . . and waited . .but nothing happened.  
Opening her eyes, she saw she was sprawled on the floor of a turkish rug and was in a room that smelled heavily of a particularly strong pipe tobacco.  
The walls all had books, jars, and miscallanious items collecting dust on the shelves. "This reminds me of . . "  
"Why, Watson, look at what we have hear?" A tall, lanky man rose from a seat infront of a fireplace. His sandy-brown hair was slightly ruffled and a pair feirce, peircing blue eyes studied her criticly as he looked over a stong , pale nose.  
Oliva stood up and smirked, "You have Olivia," she put out her hand, "Olivia Watson."


	2. Introductions and a New Neighbor

The man looked at my hand, then shook it with his own, chemically-stained hand. "Sherlock Holmes. And *please* do not call me by first name at all, Americans make it sound horrible. You are left handed and write a bit for fun, I see"   
I guess he was waiting for me to be suprised, I only smiled. "My accent, and the way I have the calluses on my left hand, along with the ink stains."  
"Yes," he looked at my criticly. Then looked up and laughed heartilly. "Ah, where *are* my manners. Let me introduce you to John Watson."  
"You forgot to say Dr., Mr. Holmes." He looked at me and gaped. "Simple, the stitch you used for the inside of your blazer. I'm familuar with the stitch, used rarely by anyone but a surgeon." I put out my hand to Watson. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."  
"Now, can you explain to me why you fell through the ceiling of my living room, leaving nary a mark on it, nor an exclaimation from the man that lives upstairs? Never mind, he moved out."  
I look down at the floor. "I'd have to know myself to tell you, now wouldn't I? All I know was that I was driving on the bridge, on my way to the airport and a jerk in front of me hit the brakes, I veered to the right to get out of his way, and ended it up falling over the side."  
"An 'airport'? What in heaven's name is that? And what is a car? Ms. Watson, if that really is your name, you do not seem to make sense."  
"Don't be stupid! An airplane, you know a-" a sighed exasperated. "What year is it?"  
"The year is 1883," Watson offered.  
"That means I've gone back 118 years!" I moaned, putting a hand on my forehead. Holmes made a movement as if to catch me, and I glared at him. "I don't faint, thank you."  
"But how may I ask is the year going to help with anything?" Watson looked at inquired.  
"I'm going to prove to this man that I am from the future!" I looked down at the paper reading the date. Smiling broadly, I held myself up to my tallest, which, if it really was 1883, would make me rather tall. "You just got back from a case involving a murdered women, her twin siser, their step-father, and a snake. It also was the first time *you* have ever gone along with him, isn't Watson?" I turned to the other man, choking on his toast.  
"How-how did you know?" He said at last.  
"Why, the journals that you have been keeping behind Mr. Holmes'back," I looked at the papers that obviously cases that cluttered the room. "You accuretly discribe the state of *his* record keeping, I see."  
"She probably asked Mrs. Hudson on her way in." Holmes said simply.  
"How could I ask her if I fell through the ceiling?" I retorted.  
"A trick of some sort, you tell me, magician."  
"Maalesh" I said carelessly, using the Arabic verbal form of a shrug.   
"You speak Arabic, then?" Holmes said in the language. I observed how it flowed effortlessly off his tongue.  
"Yes," I responded, the same. "I know many languages. French, Latin, Spanish . . .. I don't think this is very fair to Mr. Watson, though. He is probably taking this converstation as something that is is not, from the his style of writing, I can see he is a hopeless romantic."  
"Yes, quite right, Ms. Watson," he said in English. "But I dont see how I should trust that you are who you say you are."  
I fumed, then twirled about. Like a gift from God, my two large suitcases were infront of me, as well as the small knapsack that held my gun. On the 'side' I had done a little FBI work, after which I was rewarded with a permit to carry it around. When I was at my apartment in New York with my best friend and practically sister, Krys, I couldn't sleep without on my bedside.  
Turning to the ironically heavier suitcase, full of books and other paperwork that I could casually glance through on my vacation, I opened it. From the bottom of it, I pulled out my secret weapon for that particular moment; 'The Complete and Unabriged Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Volume One'. Flipping furiosly to the Speckled Band story, I held it open to Watson. "Does this look familiar?"  
"Yes!" That's my entry for last evening! But how the devil did you-?"  
"Simple. You are going to start selling these tales to a man by the name of Sir Arthur Canon Doyle, who is going to publish them as ficticious mystery stories. I hope you can take very constructive critisism, Mr. Holmes." I said matter-of-factly.  
"And why?" he snorted.  
"Because people are going to say that you are a figment of Doyle's imagination, and that you are a copy of certain Monsier Dupin, created by Edgar Allan Poe. But," I sighed dramatically. "Ces't la vie!"  
Holmes grabbed the book and looked at the frontpage that told the publishing date. "1999," he said quietly. He flipped through the pages, then gasped. "I die? By George, that can't be true!"  
"It is." I said solemnly, then corrected myself. "Err, it's not. I mean it is and it's not, or at first it is and *then* it's-"  
"As much as I wish to listen to this all day, Ms. Watson," the detective said impatiently, "but I have things to do. Like count the floor boards of the steps upstairs, and stare into nothingness . . . "  
I stomped my foot like a little child. "Excuse me, Mr. 'I-think-I-know-everything-so-that-entitles-me-to-be-impolite', women of this time might be okay being talked to like that, but I am most cetainly not! I am a Crime Scene Investigator and I also am a forensic biologist, I am also a force to be reckoned with if you want to fight over something. Now that you've been warned, bring it!" Unfortunettly I didn't have a Yankees hat or gum, or I would have pushed the brim down snug and probably blowed an obnoxious bubble.  
The defeated man sighed. "Alright, alright." He glared at me and smiled amused. "Yet, you still haven't shown any sign of identification."  
I grabbed by backpack and grabbed my ID. Flipping it with extra relish I looked at him sternly. "Olivia Watson, C.S.I. Is that enough now?"  
"Yes, I suppose." He slunk down in the chair, beaten. "And what do you want?"  
I shrugged. "A ticket back home, but untill then . ." What was I going to do about a house? Living with them wasn't practicle, but then I thought of something . .   
"You said that the room upstairs is open for rent, right?"  
"Yessss," he looked at me with a questioning look, raising one brow. I nodded at him with a grin.  
"Oh good Heavens, no!" He moaned, falling back into the chair again.  
"What?" Watson finaly spoke up.  
"Yes! I'll move in upstairs, wait, I better check how much money I have.  
Looking into the wallet that was in the bag, I nearly choked. "Um, I think I can take care of the rent. I have 851, 790 pounds in the bank! How in the world. . ." I didn't even want t think about it.  
"Well, with everything else that's happening today, I suppose I should believe in *fairies*, too!" Holmes said with a humph. As I stifled a laugh from knowing that it was Doyle who actually believed in them, Mrs. Hudson came in.  
"Why Mr. Holmes!" She exclaimed. "I didn't know that you had a client, please forgive me for intruding."  
"It is no problem. This is Watsons . ." he paused, "sister, Ms. Olivia Watson. She was interested in the room upstairs, and was inquiring if she could move in immediatly."  
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Watson, really 'tis." She grasped my hand with her heavily callused ones and shook it. "I'd love to have you stay upstairs. And you could move in right away if you like. I'll have my boy come and fetch your things for you."  
When she left, I turned to the two men. "Well, 'brother', Mr. Holmes, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of you as we are now neighbors. Good day." With that, I left to go explore my new flat, but not without hearing a large groan come from Holmes' sie of the room."  
  
  
  
  
  
Yeah. I know, I know, switched into first person. Oh well suffer all of you! MWA HA HA HA HA! That feels better. 


	3. The Death of a Fly and a Lesson from Soc...

The flat turned out to be very nice. The layout was the same, although the furniture that  
was in there was more feminine. The view of the street more to my liking.  
"Miss Watson, I can help you with anything you need." Mrs. Hudson assured me.  
"Why thank you, but please, my name is Olivia. I'd like it very much if you call me  
by that."  
"That I will do, . . . .Olivia." Her smile brightened the room.  
After she left me to myself, I looked through my trunk. Everything had changed,  
except for a pair of worn in black jeans, pajama tank top and pants, and a black shirt. My  
reading trunk held most of the same books, although there now was a addition of a few  
books on British Victorian etiquette.  
I caught my self sneaking a glance at a mirror, hoping *I* didn't look different.   
Of course I was the same. The nearly black brunette hair that I kept at a, for my  
time, strange, waist length was still the same, it was in it a bun. My amber eyes peered  
cautiously at me and the porcelain pale complexion I hated was the same.  
I surprised myself when I looked down. The outfit was a dark cranberry, and was  
styled perfectly. I guess I'm on top of the fashion section, I thought.  
I packed my things where they should be, and sat, watching the fire. I guessed that  
this was a Victorian form of television. But this channel seemed to be showing boring  
shows..  
When someone knocked at the door, I went and answered it. I wished I didn't.  
"Why, hello," Holmes stepped into the room, not asking permission, "nice place  
you have here. Don't you think, Watson?"  
From the doorway, my "brother" nodded in agreement.   
"Your hair is black," I said flatly. "What were you disguised as before?"  
"Nothing," he shrugged. "I did it for fun."  
Holmes sat in the equivalent of his own chair downstairs, and grabbed the two  
articles of clothing I had left out; my purse and jeans.  
"Men's trousers? And this sack?" He raised an eyebrow at me.   
I quickly grabbed them back. "In my time. Women wear *jeans* more than  
dresses. We've found the freedom much nicer. And this 'sack' is my purse. I carry my  
things that I need in it." Burrowing through bag, I found my cell phone.  
"Yes!" I shrieked, causing questionable glances from my guests. I thought that  
this might be my way back home. I turned it on and saw the roaming bar, crestfallen.  
I was in a deadzone.  
"But of course, what was I to think? That just because I had it it would work?   
For goodness' sake, they don't even have a telephone yet!" I fell on to a couch.  
"A telephone?" Watson asked.  
"It's how you can talk to people even if you're miles away. This is a cell phone. It  
can be used more freely than a regular phone." I explained wearily, then sat up. "Holmes,  
someone's at your door."  
Holmes stood up and listened for a moment, then looked at me. "How did you  
hear that?"  
I shrugged and looked at him. "I have a good sense of hearing, although I have  
better uses. You better go find at who's out the door."  
The two left, and I went to my room and changed into pajamas, thinking I was  
going to have a peaceful sleep.  
I didn't. Holmes came into the room by pick-locking the door.  
"Excuse me, do you know what 'courtesy' means?" I demanded.  
"No, not really. Watson already was asleep and I had to ask you about  
something."  
"Fire away."  
"Well," he paused, "first may I ask what that thing is on your arm."  
I looked at my arm, "Oh that, it's a tattoo, I thought they had them in this time."  
"Well, we do, but only . . circus women wear them."  
"It's quite fashionable to have one in my time. It's an onc. It's the ancient  
Egyptian symbol for life. My Mum is Egyptian, I lived there for a couple of years."  
"And the magnifying glass?" He asked awkwardly.  
"Oh," I blushed. "That was an accident. I'd gone to get a tattoo because I had  
moved from New Jersey to New York City. I told the artist that my name was Watson  
and I wanted a surprise, as long as it was totally appropriate for anyone, and I got this.   
Kinda a 'Holmes and Watson' symbol. He placed it in there for a strange reason. Said it  
would help me someday."  
"Ah, I see." He sat in the chair, fingertips together. "What's your story? What  
will you tell people about your family?"  
"Umm, I'll tell them that Watson is my brother, and that I went to a boarding  
school in France. My brother and I were never very close, although we don't hate each  
other."  
"Very nice." He gave me a questioning look. "So what did you mean that you  
'have other uses'?"  
"I'm multifunctional. If you ever want someone to penetrate the mysterious world  
of women and get any information you want. I could also help you when it comes to  
Professor Moriarty's thugs. Just tell me what you need me to do."  
"You?" He laughed and looked at me like I was from another planet. "You're a  
women!"  
I rose to my feet. " 'A women'? You think because of my gender I'm useless?"   
Desperate times call for desperate measures, I thought. "Punch me in the face."  
"Although I find that a thought, I *am* a gentlem-" He couldn't finish the sentence,  
I slapped him on the face. He lunged at me and was about to grab me by the shoulders in  
rage. Pulling the front of his shirt, I fell backwards and threw him over me He tumbled  
into the next room and I grabbed the Girl Scout knife I always carried with me. His eyes  
widened when he saw it pointed at him. I made a half turn and threw it at bug on the wall  
who's life ended quickly. Smiling smugly and going back to my chair, I opened the  
Sherlock Holmes Dictionary that I kept with me for a little 'light reading'.  
"I suppose I was . . . . wrong," he hesitated, then added quickly, "at least about  
you."  
I smiled politely. "'Only one thing I know and that is that I know nothing'. You  
should take a lesson from Socrates."  
He shook his head and started to mutter something. It sounded a bit vulgar.  
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out." I said sweetly as he opened the door,  
he turned to say a comeback, but I said something before him.  
"Don't try opening that door without knocking again, I'll get a dog if I have to."  
Later on, as I lay in bed, I thought of the tattoo and the onc. Did that messed-up  
symbol for life save my life? Did that artist know what it would 


	4. Scotland Yard

I had been at Baker Street for two weeks, when a new emotion took over . . . . . .I  
was bored . . . bored to the point that I would probably have tried to find out the death of  
a cat on the side of the highway. Except there was no such thing as a highway yet, and  
there was no such thing as a car. I was starting to wish Ford had come up with the  
automobile and sold them quicker, so that I could see some kind of road-kill (a/n please, this is *not* how I feel, its just how Olivia feels).   
I was in the middle of watching a mother scold her child on the sidewalk when I heard Holmes' knock on the door. I could always tell it was him by the quickness of the steps that was only a characteristic of his.  
I opened the door, his smile was more a smirk.  
"If you want to prove you're what you say you are, come with me."  
Turning and getting my coat, I did just that.  
Once we had a cab, we started on our way accompanied by Watson.  
"What's this all about, Holmes?" I asked after a few minutes.   
"Not sure. Lestrade wouldn't tell me. All I know is that is was . . .a murder." He  
said the last two words with extra emphasis, as if it would get a larger reaction out of me.  
I looked at him with a poker face, and didn't say anything for a moment. "So?" I said in a monotone. "I *do* work at crime scenes, as well as hang out at the local college waiting for a new cadaver. That type of thing just doesn't phase me."  
He stared at me in a way I couldn't identify. "You're not at all like the other women, are you?"  
I colored, no idea why. "Um, . . . .I suppose so."  
The rest of the cab ride was spent in silence from all sides.  
  
Watson had taken me in as a sister, and I did the same without reluctance. I had been an only child and had no one to look up to. There was much to look up to in Watson. He had a kind heart and was amazingly loyal, he could always make people laugh.  
Holmes had gotten used to me, as he now had to see me first thing each morning.   
Watson and I, meaning also Holmes, would have breakfast together. Watson would most likely discuss topics along the lines of medicine. They would both ask questions about the future, and I told the answers to the best of my ability. This morning's big question had been about dating.  
"So what you are telling me is people do all those things before they are even married?" Watson asked as I explained about a friend of mine who had just gotten pregnant with her boyfriend. I nodded my head.  
"Yes. People do all sorts of things that only people that are married in this time would do, and then break up and start dating some one else."  
Holmes, who had been quiet and asking only a few questions up until now, asked me quietly if I took part in this custom.  
"No, not ever. I haven't dated anyone since, Lord, my first year in college!"  
"Why? It seems everyone else from what you say were probably too busy looking at each other than the lesson."  
"Because I wasn't. I was top student in my class, actually." I remembered the comments that had generated from peers; Brainy, Geek, Miss Know-it-All . . . the list was endless. "I was busy doing what you're *supposed* to do there. But, I don't know, I guess I hadn't found the sort of person I would want to date." Holmes had this way of getting people into the most embarrassing situations before they knew about it. Uh oh, time to go. "Thanks, you two, I'll take the rest of my coffee upstairs."  
"No, no, Watson, get back here. What is the 'sort of person' you would want to date?"  
I sighed and turned. "I suppose someone who was smart, no, brilliant. Very comfortable to be around, but knows the boundaries. I'd have to trust them completely, though. I hate those spur-of-the-moment sort of things." I laughed. "There's not enough of them in the future, but too many now!"  
Holmes groaned at my bantering manner and went back to bed for an hour.  
So here we were, at Scotland Yard. I tried my best not to gape at it, although it took a lot of effort. A small man in frumpy clothing greeted Holmes.  
"Lestrade, my associate, Watson, and his sister."  
We greeted him politely, and went inside. The smell that I had always related to a medical bay took over the room we were now in.  
Lestrade paused before opening the door. "Are you sure you'll be all right, Ms. Watson?"  
I pretended to be hesitant. "I . . I think I will."  
When we entered, he showed us a cadaver. Obviously new, it still was wet.   
Lestrade pushed Holmes towards the table. "Go on, tell us what you think."  
Holmes shook his head. "No, I want to see what Ms. Watson thinks of this. She's studying and this would be great practice for the young woman."  
*'Young woman'* I quickly glared at Holmes and then turned. He was only a year older than I, and the fact that I had always looked younger than I actually was didn't help. Of course, not many people of the time could say they were actually in the same atmosphere as Holmes, and I was almost as tall as him.  
Glancing at Lestrade, he shrugged. "Go on, let's 'ave a looksee."  
Leaning over the body, I could see that this man had died a few hours earlier. Taking a look at the hands, I saw the ring missing. No, not missing, just that he didn't have one.   
"He wasn't married, no ring, no indentation of a ring." I looked at the foot without a shoe. "Definitely, there's a hole in his sock."  
Casting a side-long glance in Holmes' and Watson's direction, I looked for a reaction. Watson's mouth was opened, and Holmes only raised an eyebrow. Lestrade's face was scrunched in a questioning look.  
"'Owed you know that by a hole?"  
"Would any self-respecting wife let her husband wear socks with holes in them? No, she would not."  
I went back to the body. I had over-looked it up until now, but it hit me. This man might have been dead before he was even in the river. I looked over at the Inspector.   
"Negative diatoms?" I asked, on a hunch.  
"Huh?" He had *no* idea what the meant. Ouy, all right then . .   
"Was there water in the lungs?" Let's make this a little simpler for the poor man. Now I could see why the Great Detective had basically *zero* tolerance for him.  
"Oh, no, none."  
I looked at the arms, those strange, purple bruises. I could remember something involving them, I just couldn't put my finger on it.  
"Did they determine what these where from?"  
"No, they're just scrapes from being in the river; currents and all."  
I looked even closer. No, he was wrong. "Inspector Lestrade, these are not abrasions, how could-"  
"Now, Ms. Watson, I really think that this has gone far enough and that it's time for Mr. Holmes to take over." His voice was laced with impatience.  
It took all of the control I had to stop from doing something drastic. Turning  
quickly, I was about to leave when Holmes caught my arm. "Stay, Watson. Lestrade will  
say he is sorry."  
Lestrade stuttered. "I . . I'm . .sorry, Ms. Watson." He looked a bit miffed.  
Holmes heaved a sigh. "Now, let's get back to what is on hand, shall we, Watson?"  
His eye-contact had been with me, not his friend, and I smiled at him.  
"Yes, let's." 


	5. Just Another Day on Baker Street

I sat on the sofa, Holmes in his chair, and Watson in his. Everytime we did this I had to laugh. It looked just like the illustrations that they had in the stories . . .but an additional female.  
Of course, Holmes said nothing, as did neither Watson or I. It was a very comfortable silence that I had always found to settle sooner of later in their flat. I was about to rise to leave when someone on the street caught my attention.   
A man was crossing the street, but looking to the left, then the right, then the left. Obviously American. You have to look to the right first in England. He crossed to our door, checking a slip of paper in his hand.  
"Holmes, you have a visitor." I said quietly.   
He looked up, shaken from his trance. "Wha-what? Send him in."   
Watson chuckled. "Not here yet, chap. He just came to the door."  
"Oh," Holmes looked down, "then send him up."  
Of course, in the next instant a young man had come into the room. I placed him as 27, a violinist, and extremely worried by the look on his face.  
"Hello, sir, what brings you to my residence?" Holmes asked nonchaleontly. I had learnd that Holmes never liked to overlap cases, and would probably dismiss this to the Yards.  
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, please, you have to help me!" Texan, just moved. The drawl was there, and so was the tan. He must have just moved, as he didn't even have the slightest hint of a Brittish accent. Even I faked one sometimes, just for the fun, and not even a pure, born and raised Englishmen would have been able to tell it was fake.  
"Please, Mr . ." the detective trailed off, looking for a name.  
"Mr. Stuntson."  
"Mr. Stuntson, compose yourself and explain."  
"Well, ya see sir, my friend and I, Mr. Glassborough-"  
"As in the Glassborough family?"  
"Yessir, well, he and I work at the-"  
"Cafe Nationale. Your outfit suggests that of an entertainer, and your hands have the calluses of a violinist. You smell slightly of garlic . . . hardly recognizable, my good man. Now, there's a bit of floor wax that seems to have worn off on the bottoms of your shoe. I know that there are only a few resteraunts in the area that are dancing and dinner establishments, and you most certainly walked to here. Your face is all red. Combined with that and the fact that outside of the Nationale is the only one of these places that had construction going on right now, street dirt on your shoe, I placed you and your friend there. " He acted casually. "Now, go on .. "  
"Amazing, Mr. Holmes. Well, my friend Mr. Glassborough and I work at the cafe. His family and I have known eack other for years. In fact, David is going to marry my sister . .," he looked down, troubled, "but he's having an affair with another woman. If the public gets a hold of this, Mr. Holmes, it would be very bad." He finished his sentence and eyed myself and Watson. "Who are they?"  
"These are my associates, Mr. Watson and his sister, Ms. Watson." We shook his hand. "You can trust them both as much as you trust me. Tell me, how do I play into this? I can't be wasting my time on silly, frivilous things about love." Holmes seemed to have barely a nerve left.  
"Mr. Holmes. My friend had been missing for two days."  
Automatically, the detective's eye's grew wide and I could almost hear the sound of his brain's wheels turning. When we had examined the body, we placed the death around 39 hours earlierand that the man was a musician, not in his own clothing.   
"When was the last time you saw him? Around seven?" Holmes' looked about ready to jump out of his chair.  
Stuntson looked at him confused. "Why, that's the last time any of us ever saw him, how did you know?"  
Holmes' face grew pale, and he carefully refilled his pipe. I realized he was going to be akwardly telling this man the news. He cleared his throat, but I stepped forward, glancing at him.  
"What?" Stuntson asked.  
"Mr. Stuntson, I'm very sorry to tell you this but . . . Mr. Glassborough's body was found in the river earlier today."  
He sunk into a chair. "Oh, poor David." He sprung up, causing a gasp from Watson's direction. "It was that devil women, that Mrs. Perrins! I tell you! She killed him!"  
Watson cleared his throat and stepped forward. "I think that it's time to leave. I'm very truly sorry, but I don't think it's right to jump to conclusions."  
Stuntson turned and slammed the door behind him, causing a biscuit tin to fall of a shelf.  
"Seemed quick to accuse the woman, didn't he?" I asked Watson.  
"Yes, but it does seem logical-" he started, cut off by Holmes.  
"No, you must not be as quick to judge, either. I think I'll meet this Mrs. Perrins."  
He left, and I went to my room, having had enough chaos for the day.  
Things never are as simple as they seem to be. The facts of Glassborough kept going through my head. Something was wrong with this 'death by misadventure'-Holmes and I had fought over that for several minutes with Lestrade.   
I sighed, closing my eyes and letting sleep take over. 


	6. Nightmares, Eliza, and a Violin Tossed

I sat up and shivered in bed.   
"Damn, I hate nightmares," I said to no one in particular. One of the the many upgrades of living alone was being able to talk to wall or other objects and not worry about it.   
Ever since my father had died, which had been a brutall murder, I had had a reocurring dream. It always was the same. I found myself in a long corridor, rushing through it at break-neck speed. Im my hand was a empty bottle, and on the wall was a hyroglyphic-looking aligator. I walked through a doorway and a coffin held my father. As I turned to leave, a man stepped in the door. He said something about wishing it didn't come to this. A deer stood infront of me, as did a blurry but familiar person, and I saw the cloaked figure raised the gun, I screamed and stepped infront of the figure and deer, the shot went off . . .   
And that's were it always ended. Oh well, I thought to myself, nothing important.  
The sun was already up and I could hear the sound of scuttling about and Mrs. Hudson yelling.  
Quickly dressing and heading downstairs, I saw Holmes puffing madly at the pipe. Slowly his hand started reaching for the needle.  
"Holmes!" I shreiked.  
"What?"  
"That. How could you practise something so . . so . .disgusting! You could die from that!"  
"I haven't yet."  
"'Yet'. Why do you think that death rates have decreased in the future?"  
"Medical advancements?"  
"Yes. One being the discovery that drugs injected into the bloodstream like that could kill you!"  
He slumped back in the chair. Sighing, he eyed me like a teacher. "I suppose you want me to stop it then, Watson?"  
I glanced casually around. "Ummm, yes. I don't want to feel guilty for killing literature's greatest detective. So what did you learn?"  
"Not much, wouldn't let me talk to her. I did learn that she lives in two houses. I had gone to Stuntson's to gather more information and succeded. Perrins lives where he said, and also at another location. By posing as a cabdriver, I found she has two names and seems to be very rushed."  
"Holmes, I have no fun! You go out and do all these things and I'm left in the dust!" I pouted playfully, not expecting anything to come of it.  
"Well, well," he looked flustered. "Alright, you can come along and pretend to be a friend of her husbands or something. Can you act?"  
I beamed. "If I didn't like science as much as I did, I'd be a starlett."  
"I take that as a 'yes', then."  
  
An hour later, I was standing outside the residence of the Perrins. Fortunetly for me, Mrs. Perrins was home.  
Showed upstairs after giving my calling card, which was a forged copy of a friend of hers, I reviewed my part in my head. Putting on my best British accent, I greeted her warmly.  
"Eliza! I can't believe it's you!"  
She embraced me and held me back. "I could hardly recognize you."  
I gushed, hoping it sounded good enough. "You either!"  
We sat and started talking, and after what seemed to be re-aquianting each other, I went straight for what I needed.  
"Well, where's your husband?"  
"James? Oh, he and I . ." she paused. "We're not agreeing too well." She bit her lip. "Eliza, I'm-well, I was- having an affair with someone. You know I wouldn't tell anyone but you."  
"What happened?"  
"I loved him more than James, and I still do. James found out, I have no idea where he is now!"  
"Whatever shall you do?"  
"I don't know. Oh, Eliza, I'm so thankful that you came to London. You and I  
went through so many trying times."  
"Yes," Well, who I was pretending to be must have, or it was the dramatization of a young, bored woman who had nothing better to do than fictionalize a lost pen or failing a class.  
"Now, if James were to know that I told you . . . ." she trailed off. "Please, go to  
South Street, I have another house there. Please, come by, I don't know what I am going to do about this whole predicament!"  
"Alright, dear, I will."  
We started to walk towards the door. "Oh," she said before closing the door.   
"Ask for Jennifer Moriarty, that's what they call me there."  
I gulped and stared at the closed door.  
*This is not good . . . ."  
  
"Moriarty!" I slamned Holmes' door shut. "Why didn't you tell me that her husband was Moriarty?"  
He looked up from his violin and shrugged, then continued playing.  
I huffed and threw off my jacket, knealing down I looked at Holmes, straight in the eye.  
"Do you even know who he is yet?"  
"A very intelligent man of science like myself." The violin started to play agian.  
I was audacious and agrivated, which was a very unfortunete thing for my friend.   
I grabbed the violin and the bow and threw into the corner.  
"Sherlock Holmes, that man is bad, very, very bad. He has a million connections with London's underground community". I really hoped that the words sunk in.I started to tremble. "Holmes, this man could kill you if you get on his wrong side. If his wife was having an affiar with Glassborough, then we know who killed him."  
Finally he looked at me. "Do you even have any evidence? Of either one of those?"  
"Perrins herself admitted it to 'Eliza', and Moriarty is. . . well, evil."  
"Fine," he stood up and walked over to the fire. "If what your saying is true,  
then-"  
"Holmes, you know that the police aren't going to just go on a theory."  
"Then let's say it's a fact. I think I can trust you on this one." He looked down at  
the fireplace. I stared at him. Thank God that Watson wasn't here, he would've turned  
this into a romance of all times.  
"You-you are?" I felt my throat going dry. The king of deduction was trusting me  
on what he did best. Talk about a compliment.  
"Yes. So, Moriarty found out about this affair and . . ."  
"And he had him scratched out. But what I'm worried about it is Jennifer, if he  
was sesparate enough to kill her lover, then he could most certainly-"  
"Kill her." Holmes finished my sentence. As he did, Lestrade entered the room.  
"Mr. 'Olmes, Ms. Watson," he took his hat off and looked at us seriously. "We've had a murder on South Street."  
"Mrs. Moriarty!" I said in unison with Holmes. We all dashed out before the  
inspector was able to ask a question. 


	7. Threats

We got a cab and hurried to the house as quickly as possible. Holmes had started to tap his fingers on his knee, an obvious sign of impatience.  
When we reached there, he and I slid past others crowded to see what was wrong. Holmes had to help me crawl through to the inside.  
A policeman told us to go upstairs, when we got up to the room, we saw exactly what we predicted; Jennifer Moriarty, also known as Bianca Peppins, dead on the floor.  
We gave each other a glance and nodded. I started looking at the floor for prints in one direction, him in another, but realized that there had been too many people in the room to ever identify those of the killer.  
Holmes stood up after I did. "Too many." He muttered and looked at me for a verifying. I nodded and looked at the body. Anyone could see she was pretty, which I thought was probably the only reason Moriarty married her. Her hand was out and the rest of her was sprawled out. No blood.   
Holmes went over and looked at the vanity. He stood straight up and asked for the maid to come up for interrogation. She had shook his and my hand when we were first let in.  
"Mrs. Evans, did you move the comb from Mrs. Moriarty's hand?"  
"Why, yes, how'd you know?"  
"Your dusty fingerprint had been left on my glove. This room is very dusty, and the only thing slightly clean is the comb."  
"I just wanted to make the room tidier before the police came. I run this house and I don't like anything messy."  
On a hunch, I rolled up Jennifer's sleeve, revealing the same type of marks as Glassborough.  
We looked around a little bit more and then were about to leave when I saw Holmes quickly and indiscreetly pick up the comb and wrap it up in his scarf. He handed it to me behind my back, and I put it in my satchel.  
I asked Holmes to stop at the London library for a moment. I went in a borrowed a large armload of books and started home. When we got there, Watson was waiting.  
"Where were you?"  
"Investigating a murder." Holmes said carelessly. He sat down in his chair and I seated myself at the desk, starting to read.  
I skim read every page, hoping the words 'purple bruises' would come up.  
I can't remember ever falling asleep, but the next thing I remembered was being on the couch, wrapped in a blanket.  
Sitting up, I found Holmes watching me from his seat.  
"How long was I out?"  
He shrugged, "Only an hour or two."  
I blushed, "And how did I get here?"  
"I carried you. You looked uncomfortable."  
"Um, thank you." I got up and went back over to the table. After a few moments, I found what I wanted. "Eureka." I whispered.  
"What is it?"  
"I found how they died." I pointed to the paragraph. "The purple marks. It's this poison. Paralyzes the body."  
"How can we prove it?"  
"Glassborough was dead before he even hit the water, Perrins was on her back and looked like she had just fallen. Did you see the slight little hole in his head?"  
"Yes. I didn't want to make you look *too* below me."  
"Well, I did see it. It was the only way for it to get into his bloodstream."  
"We have him, what about-"  
"The comb, the points were filed to very, very sharp edges. I found traces of it on them."  
"Motive? Who put it on there?"  
I bit my lip. "Glassborough was asked to follow someone outside, they knocked him out, changed his clothes, and injected it into his scalp. But Perrins . ."  
"How could Moriarty know that she was going to be using it if she hadn't been at the house in some time? It wears off after a while as it says here."  
"Well, if Moriarty had the poison, then anyone could have gotten their hands on it."  
"The maid?"  
"It wasn't the maid." I said flatly.  
"How do you know?"  
"Trust me; I've gotten my man a few times that way."  
He sighed. "All right. But who else could have done it? It had to be immediate."  
We were quiet for a moment. "She did it," he said finally.  
"To make it look like him and to make him pay for what he did to the man she loved."  
"How can we prove it was him?"  
I couldn't answer. I was able to get this far into it, but I couldn't do anything more."  
Holmes stood up and got his deerstalker on. "I know how to."  
I sprang up. "Holmes, no!"  
I couldn't do anything, he was gone.  
  
  
I woke Watson and we sat staring at the fire. This nagging feeling kept tugging at the back of my mind. *He has no idea what this man can be like.* I told myself. *I've read what he did, and Holmes could just as easily be part of the number that he killed.*  
I got up to get my coat.  
"Where are you going?" Watson asked me.  
"Oh, some one's gonna owe me a favor after this one!" I said before leaving.  
  
Aimlessly, I started to walk. I knew that it wasn't normal, and I knew that I didn't know where he was, but I was going to find him. Sir Arthur Canon Doyle would've killed me.  
I walked towards a street, the name unclear due to the rain beating down worse than before.   
And somehow I found him. He was there, limping from a wound in the left leg.  
"Holmes, you can't go anywhere without my help, can you?"  
"I suppose not." He answered with a grimace of pain.  
"Here, put an arm, around my shoulder."  
He stood to the tallest he could on one leg and looked at me indignant. "I most certainly will not!"  
I shrugged. "Fine, limp all the way back to home and then collapse before you get there, dyeing from loss of blood. See if I care."  
"Fine. "  
We cumbersomely made our way back home, and when we were almost there, a weasel-like looking man stopped us. "You is Mr. 'Olmes?"  
"Guilty." He said through gritted teeth. The pain must have been really bad.  
"I gotta message from my boss, says that you betta watch what you do, otherwise 'e's gonna get you."  
"I will, then. Thank Mr. Moriarty for me."   
The small man shook. "'Ow'd you-" he never finished the question before he was racing up the street.  
  
  
  
I got him inside, and Watson and I took a look at the leg. I got a cloth and cold water for his fever, and Watson went to work stitching the wound back up.  
"Bloody git took a knife out of nowhere and stabbed me in the leg, then downward, ah," he winced. "Didn't even see that one coming."  
Watson soon gave him a sedative, and he slowly went to sleep.   
Little did I know that that would be the most peaceful time experienced in the next few days. 


	8. Chapter 8; Watson Being Annoying, Bomb a...

First of all, I would like to thank all of those wonderful people who actually reviewed and dint use the review option as a way to nag me. Obviously that certain someone batta watch her back because I have connections wit connection who have connections with connections (jk)!  
Some of the peeps I wish to thank:  
Moonshine for being soo nice and yes, that flip thing was from Oh, Jerusalem (BTW, your not annoying; IM me, or email me, I neeeedd ideas!)  
Hannah Holmes, aren't u on sh22?  
Sweetheart, 'Yo'!  
Aen I do try 2 make them live  
Kit Thespian, one of the first people that in reviews told me bout' it being messed up (damn computers is all I can say)  
Meatloaf the Happy Donkey for your . . .obscure and vague remarks  
Rose, thank u for fixing the hair thing (but *of course* he felt like dyeing it!)  
Hank Riddle for the longest review in the history fanfictiondom  
I refuse to acknowledge a certain person who's name is ( and they did a great job of spelling the name, didn't she folks?) that of a historical figure who was beheaded and is also the name of the doll of Wednesday Friday Adams, to u, I say 2 u bah humbug!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I sneezed, mentally slapping myself. After finding Holmes, as I said it, "lost and forlorn", I hadn't really taken care of myself. Watson had to go visit his sick mother, and Mrs. Hudson and I took care of him. It was chiefly me, because there was always something going on downstairs in the kitchen. Her daughter had come to visit and , because the kitchen was under a slightly less firmer but still strict hand, I was relieved from bedside duty. I hadn't slept in days.  
Now, here I was, sick as a dog and trying to disguise my voice so that Mrs. Hudson wasn't worried.  
"Come in," my voice cracked. Damn.  
I had given Mrs. Hudson a spare key in case of any problems, and this was one of the times she used it.  
"Oh, Olivia!" She had come to regard me with a mother-like affection. "You got a fever, don't you?" She put a hand on my forehead. "You do! I'll go fetch you some of my best chicken soup and-"  
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I'm all right. If I get up and start acting like nothing's wrong with me I fool my own cold."  
"All right," she said incredulously, "if you need anything, you know I am here . ."  
"Thank you, I will make sure to ask you for help if I need."  
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Holmes is looking for you."  
"Oh, why?"  
'Said he needed to speak with you about something." Her eyes twinkled "Is he a new beau?"  
"Holmes? Goodness," I choked, at the absurdity, "no."  
Shaking my head and getting changed, I headed downstairs. When I first entered the room, I found only Watson.  
"What are you up to?" I asked quietly.  
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all!" He said quickly and stared at me.  
"Watson, your blinking at a rate uncountable, you're lying." I grabbed the paper before he could say anything.  
" 'Although my good friend and my sister deny their love?' A; I'm flattered that you actually think of me as your sister so much you'll write it in a journal entry, B: that whole love thing *must* go. Where would you get an idea like that?"  
"I-" Watson was saved by the Holmes.  
"Hello, everyone." He paused in front of me. "You look sick. Watson."  
I tried my best to glare at him. "I'm not sick, I'm ju-" I started couching violently and I sat myself down in a chair.  
"Honest, Watson," he said matter-of-factly, "you'll catch you're death if you're always worrying about me over you."  
"Do not!" I cried indignantly, then mumbled that I had been taking a walk.  
"And I *really* fall of a cliff. Go to bed, now."  
"I am not a child, Holmes, I don't need you to tell me what to do!"  
"Well, let's ask you 'brother' then."  
We turned and looked at the doctor, who now squirmed in his chair. "Well, she does look all right . ."  
"Ha!"  
" . . . but knowing that's she has been up for over forty-eight hours without sleep would leave anyone in need of a nap. I really don't thinks it's my business to decide for her, though."  
"You heard the man, Watson," he looked at me like a punishing father, "now go to bed."  
I sighed and went back upstairs. Collapsing on my bed, I stared at the ceiling. Iech, life was at an all-time dull. Maybe Holmes was right, I thought to myself, maybe I should take a nap . .  
I sat up straight. I couldn't let him be right at everything*. I'd just close my eyes for a few minutes. . .   
When I entered the room, I found Holmes hunched over a large, black, mechanical looking thing that looked a lot like something I had seen in a book about weapons through the ages. In fact, it looked a lot like . .  
"Yes, a bomb." Holmes didn't even look up.  
"Where's it from?"  
"The front door," he pointed to our good friend, the doctor, who was shaking and gripping the chair madly. "He nearly opened it. I stopped him. Honestly, if they thought that this was, when they underestimated my logical abilities, the best that I would be able to possibly figure out, I'm quite insulted."  
I didn't know what to say for a few moments, and then started laughing. Holmes finally looked at me through the corner of his eye. I think Watson would have done the same thing, but he was too busy looking at the wall in front of him, unblinking.  
"What have *you* been doing in your room all day?" Holmes asked me curiously.  
"Oh, Holmes, shut up. *I* don't do any type of drugs and it's just funny because you're completely calm about this entire thing."  
"Well, you're 'completely calm' about traveling back in time, aren't you?"  
"That's because after my parents divorced, Mum-"  
" 'Mum'?"  
I glared at him, completely forgetting the disabled bomb in the corner. "Yes, 'Mum', I've called her that all my life, even though I'm American. Anyway, we where always moving around. From New Jersey to Cairo, Egypt, then to Seattle, then on to . . . you get the idea."  
"Oh, I see." He sighed. "So, Miss Traveler, I think we need to lay low for a while. Clearly two nearly deadly threats in less than forty-eight hours is something to worry about."  
"Yeah, but were to?"   
"I do believe last time I saw our friend Mr. Stuntson, he told me that if I ever needed anything he would be glad to comply. I say we take him up on that."  
"Good idea."  
I went upstairs to pack my stuff, remembering the many various times I'd done it before. My mother was rich, I never knew her job or why, so we were always able to do what we wanted. She would just come home one day and say that we were moving. Our next house's, I never really had a home, would always be picked by me closing my eyes and pointing to a spot on our map of the states. Egypt was the one exception. It was Mum's place of birth, so I had no say in that matter.  
I guess I just got used to being new in different places, learned the accents, the culture, local history. I usually used it to help me place a victim or suspects.  
Throwing all I could into my bags, I stared at my gun. I raced down the stairs to their apartment.  
"Got any bullets?" I asked breathlessly.  
"What for?" Watson finally spoke up. Good, he was out of shock.  
"Um, let's just say as long as I have my skirt on I'll be armed."  
"Yes, I think I do." He went over to a drawer and took out some. "What kind?"  
I looked at the gun, sudden realization hitting me. My gun had become a revolver and looked perfect for the time period. I shook my head and handed it to him.  
"I have no idea."  
A few minutes later, Holmes returned from somewhere and started packing his things. I lugged all mine down the stairs and where Watson's was, who stared at me not even breaking much of a sweat. Holmes told us to wait for a cabdriver who would sneeze and cough three times in a row.  
He showed up, and we all started in our way to God knew where. I didn't ask Holmes, who was crammed in the seat with me, due to the fact Watson took up a seat by himself ('big boned' he called himself, ha!), because I knew that he wouldn't answer me.  
We ended at the train station, and Holmes told us to quietly and indiscreetly take a compartment. We were completely quiet save for the occasional sneeze, compliments of the dregs of my cold. The train started and we all started doing whatever.  
I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I could remember was Watson across the way chuckling.  
"What?" I whispered, then realized what. I had fallen asleep and my head had slipped to Holmes' shoulder. He must have done the same thing because he was obviously asleep and had his head on mine. I elbowed him in the chest.  
"Hey, Mr. 'Confirmed Bachelor' do you mind?" I said playfully.  
He woke up and realized what happened, then basically flew to the other side of the seat. "I'm . . . I . ."  
"It's okay, but if you had drooled I would have killed you."  
Watson was laughing . I put on an innocent face.  
"You know, I learned how to flip a person, put them in a headlock, and break their spine? You know what that does, don't you, dear brother John? In fact, it's easier if they're sitting in a seat."  
He stopped and started to stare out of the window, myself smiling smugly. 


	9. Victorian Strength, Dreams, and a Conver...

When we finally reached out destination, my feet had fallen asleep and I felt like I wanted to throw up. I staggered out of the cab. Looking up, I saw one of the largest homes I had ever seen in my entire life.  
"Come on, Olivia." My 'brother' called. We were in public, I had to act like a sister.  
"Coming, John." I went to grab my luggage, but Holmes grabbed my arm.  
"What?" I hissed.  
"You're a Victorian woman. They're have delicate strength."   
"Oh," I let go of the trunk. "Right."  
We headed inside, and Holmes quickly told me, in Spanish, that he already told Watson. Stuntson had invited them to stay at his country home, which was more of a mansion. They could stay as long as they needed.  
"Gotcha. So basically you want us to thank him on our hands and knees?"   
"As a figure of speech, yes."  
We went inside, said our greetings, and where shown our rooms. This house was *huge*.   
Holmes knocked on my door later, and told me that we were going to tell Stuntson a little bit more about why we were there.  
"Mr. Stuntson, may we talk to you?" I called into his study, he looked up, and nodded. We entered the room. Slowly yet surely, we explained our predicament.  
"I see. Well, you can stay here as long as you need, although-" he paused, "I *am* having a party in two days."  
I slumped in my chair, and Watson did a little bit also. "How many?" Holmes asked, I knew that he didn't want to hear it. With the size of that house, and being an aristocrat . . .   
"Over forty."  
"If Moriarty figured out that we were here-" I started.  
"-he could easily send someone, I know." Holmes finished.  
"Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I am retiring for the night." Watson left the room.  
We all went to sleep, but I couldn't. It wasn't being in a new environment, it was that dream. I sighed and slipped out of bed, heading for the library I found it empty.  
I started glancing through titles, searching through them looking for what I wanted, and I found it. It was a book on dreams and meanings.  
I was immersed in it when I heard someone down the hallway, walking slowly, trying not to attract attention. Well, whoever it was did a lousy job, I thought. The gu . . . . .revolver, was ready and safety off without much thinking.  
"Who's there? I warn you I'm armed!" I said boldly.  
"Oh, Watson, come off of it." Holmes hissed.  
"What are *you* doing awake?"  
"Couldn't sleep."  
"Me neither. I was just looking something up."  
"Let's see it then."  
"Alright", I sat on a sofa infront of a fire. " Well, rushing through someplace stands for missing something while rushing in life. A hallway means trying to connect with someone or something. An empty bottle; misfortune. Aligator-"  
" 'Aligator'?"  
"Yes, aligator; caution, a bad sign to anyone connected with it. Coffin, containing the end, well that makes sense. Doorways; happiness and long life. Deer, long lasting friendship with whom ever connected to."  
"Who would that be?"  
"I don't know they're always blurry. That's all it says. Yes, this book helps alot," I sighed and stated with sarcasm.  
"You know that this entire thing is very laughable," Holmes said after a while.  
"What and why?"  
"I do think you read this, it was in your room when I went up there the other day, and it had my name in it, so I picked it up. Obvisusly, it's Watsons. That horrid penmenship."  
I reddened. "Yes, I did. Where *does* he come up with that stuff?"  
"I don't know, but, as I always say, things aren't always what they seem."  
"As in what, Mr. Plato?"  
"Well, you're a good example."  
"Me?"  
"Yes, at first glance, you look like any other beautiful, young, flirt of a thing, the stereotype heightened by your usual demenoer. But in further inspection, which would mean quite a while in your case, you're a top-notch fighter, and you have quite a head for deduction."  
"Why, Holmes, I do declare." I put on a Southern drawl. "I think I'm in ya likin."  
He laughed, never answering. "Well, sweet dreams." He took my hand and kissed it slowly, then stood up and left.  
I stared at the door. "Sweet dreams." I murmered. 


	10. Fighting the friend

I woke up the next morning feeling slightly drowsy, and slumped down the stairs. To tell truth, I still hadn't made heads or tail of what had happened the night before. It wasn't that anything was too out of the ordinary, except for the hand thing, it was just . . . . .confusing. I decided to leave that subject alone for the moment.  
"Good Morning, Mr. Stuntson, John, Holmes." I sat down to start on my toast.  
"Good Morning, Ms. Watson. Now what would all of you want to drink, we have tea and coffee." Stuntson inquired.  
"Tea, please," Watson said.  
"Coffee." Holmes answered.  
"Me, too." Stuntson looked at me.  
"What? Oh, I know, slightly strange, but I can't make it through the rest of the day without it." I heard Holmes sigh with relief from his seat. What did he think I was going to say? I need it because I, on average, drink four cups a day? I did have more sense than that. Women of the time didn't drink the stuff.  
We started to eat our meal in silence. Up to that point, anyone would agree, I had been a very good, patient, little girl. I slammed my fork and glared at Holmes.  
"Holmes, this is pathetic, we can't stay here for the rest of our lives. No offense, Mr. Stuntson, but I really don't wish to be in a basic house arrest because of what happened. Holmes, you're supposed to be smart, now figure a way to get us out of this rut." I remembered a series I had read many years ago, " and no, escaping to Israel or any other country on this planet will suffice. Come on, you acting like a bloody git!"  
Holmes stood up, angered. "How dare you! After how much patience I have shown to you even when you showed your anger!"  
I sprang from my chair. "I do believe I have a right to show anger!"  
"You're a woman!"  
"You've stated that brilliant observation before! My sex is not something that determines if I have can be emotional!"  
"I do not feel like having a battle of wits, Olivia." His tone would have scared me if I wasn't so outraged.   
" 'Battle of wits'? I wouldn't *dare* have a battle of wits with someone that wasn't armed!" I screamed.  
"And to think I might have lo- fine. Have it your way!" He turned and marched out the door.  
I looked at the table, Mr. Stuntson and Watson still had food poised in their hands. Sitting and smiling, I asked them why we stopped eating.  
  
  
Holmes and I didn't speak for the rest of the day. I had a bad case of insomnia, and didn't want to confront him in the library.   
I really don't know why I blew up at him, or why I called him such a git. Through the entire day, I felt guilt starting to heavily build up. The next morning, I went straight to Holmes' room. Holmes must have had the same idea, because I heard a knock that could only have been on my door, and I rushed over to see if it was him.  
"I'm sorry!" We said in unison.  
"Holmes, I must admit it was all my fault. If I hadn't started yelling at you for being here, we wouldn't have-"  
"Watson, I shouldn't have defended my pride so quickly. And it is I, who took us here."  
"All right, truce?" I asked hopefully.  
"Truce."  
We shook hands, and he offered me his arm, which I took and we started down the stairs to breakfast.  
"Oh thank God!" Watson said as we came in. "The cloud above our house is gone!"  
I smiled and sat down. Today was the party, if Moriarty found out we where here, then today was the day we were going to die. Well, I had asked for things to be a little more exciting!  
  
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I was in a good mood, so I decided to upload. Page is gonna kill me, but I promise that you'll be showin up vedy vedy soon, like maybe the next chap. This is almost done, chaps (you people is what I ment) so hold on to your bowler hats!  
I would just like to add that there is actually a Sherlock Holmes board game, I got it for x-mas. I dunno how much it cost or where to get it, but I screamed when I opened it. Ummm, cheesy bread, I gotta go! 


	11. The End . . . Or, is it?

I sighed, stubbornly trying to stick a pin in my hair that wouldn't want to go in. Finally it did, and I flew over to get dressed into what I was going to wear. Of course, that was a feat in itself.  
The dress was white with china blue stripes and had a *huge* bustle down the back, with a whole lot of ruffles, I think it was called a 'Princess' gown. I walked around my room to get the hang of the dress. If I made it through that night, I would thank the Lord and promise to be good for the rest of my little life.  
Holmes knocked on my door twice, demanding for me to be finished. I tried to be calm and tell him that, like any other woman of the time, I needed my time. He sighed loudly and started muttering something about why women couldn't be more like men.  
Finally, I was ready, and I started to go to Holmes' room, but his light wasn't on. Heading the other way, I started down the stairs . . .immediately regretting it. Watson started to ooh and aw, and Mr. Stuntson gasped. Holmes, on the other hand, had his mouth wide open and wouldn't close it.   
"I suppose I clean up pretty well, or is there something wrong?" I asked.  
Holmes didn't answer for a minute or two, but then blinked and shook his head.  
"No, you look absolutely . ." he surveyed me, and I looked away, embarrassed, " . . . . stunning."  
"Well, I darkened my complexion, so that I look a little more from the country, and a few freckles." I shrugged. "Nothing to change me too much."  
Mr. Stuntson cleared his throat and asked a slightly miffing question. "So, what should I tell the curious people. They *will* want to know who this, as Mr. Holmes put it, 'stunning' beauty is."  
"I think," okay, time to pull out a talent from the good ol' bag of tricks, "I think you could tell them that I am . .Miss Cornelia Parkins; Soprano."  
"Ah, and when were you going to tell us you can sing, Watson?" Holmes raised an eyebrow.  
I turned to grin at him, which took him aback. "When I felt like it. I *did* tell you I could have been an actress, and an actresses should be able to sing to a certain degree."  
"The voice of an angel, my sister." Watson offered.  
"Well, we will see. I do believe we can set something up so that you can sing. Anything in mind?"  
I knew exactly what would do, as it was one of the first things my father taught to me. "Carrickfergus. Although, it's a different version then most people know."   
I could remember singing that almost everyday. Like most Watson men, save for John Watson, my father had been very strict in making sure I could sing from our families' history. That was no easy feat. To make matters worse, my father believed that there were so little Celtic songs and so much time. He wait around forever to make sure I sang each correctly.  
If I closed my eyes, I could still see my father's hands hovering over the piano keys, slamming on them when I sang a note in the wrong pitch. Yes, I was afraid of my father, and I think my mother was, too. After a horrible day when I said I didn't want to sing, I think it was 'Papa, Can You Hear Me?', he showed more fury than I could ever remember. He never struck me, but he came very close on several occasions. After we moved, my mother let me do what I wanted, although the songs were stuck in my head forever. I shuttered as the picture of my father yelling at me kept replaying.  
"Well, that'll be fine, I think." Stunston woke me from my little elapse. I nodded. Then, Watson asked me the question I was regretting; "Who's going to escort Ms. Parkins to this party?"  
"I will." Holmes didn't even give Stuntson or Watson a chance to say anything. This was a little ackward. "I mean, if you act as her escort, Watson, no other man will even be able to look at her without getting the third degree. And Stuntson, all the women will envy you. I'm the only one who seems to be the best candidate for the privilege."  
"Oh, stop fighting over me. I could go by myself!" I exclaimed, trying to clear up whatever was coming.  
"No, 'Ms. Parkins', it wouldn't be polite or correct." Stuntson smiled, amused. "Mr. Holmes is right; I *do* want to be able to marry."  
Holmes smiled at me, accomplished. I took his arm, and we proceeded to the outside, where some of the guests had started to arrive. We all were introduced and went on with the night.  
As the people came on to the porch, a photographer took our picture. I insisted on having all three of us in the picture, and no other way. Watson reluctantly agreed, and I was given the picture after it had developed.  
The party was out in the backyard, which sprawled on for what seemed forever. Near the back was a maze made of hedge, and the back of which, I was told, had a view of the ocean rivaled by few.  
Of course, everyone was absolutely curious about my career, and I told them that I had just started and was going to London to try to get a job, although I really didn't see much in that career.  
"So, show them." Stuntson called from over in the corner, at which I smiled weakly. Oh boy, vocal cords don't fail me now, I prayed.  
And I sang. Nothing much to it, actually, and everything went well. As I finished, many of the people clapped, while a few decided to save their opinion. Oh well, I never said I was a diva.  
I sat down and finished my drink, suddenly suffering from a dry throat. Holmes tapped my arm. Some of the couples were starting to walk around a bit, and he and I were trying to keep in character. I smiled and stood up. "Yes, Darling?"  
He held out his arm. Honestly, this whole etiquette thing was getting old.  
I sighed as we were out of ear shot, and Holmes let go of my arm.  
"I think we did pretty well." He said quietly.  
"Yeah, except for the fact that I sucked."  
" 'Sucked'?"  
"Oh, I did horribly."  
"Oh." We walked a little bit and then he perused conversation. "So, in the future, you would be able to, say, go to dinner with some one?"  
"Holmes!" I sighed. "We've been through this before. Yes, but, just out of curiosity, who would this 'some one' be?"  
We rounded the corner, and were met by a sunset and the ocean. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.  
"It's so . ." I couldn't even think of the words.  
"Beautiful." Holmes finished my sentence. The strange think was, he wasn't looking at the view, he was looking at me.  
I shook my head. I should get my eyes checked, if that was even possible at the time.  
"As I was saying before, who?"  
He looked at the water for a moment. "Well, a certain some one."  
"And, do I know this person? I mean, if they were family, in a weird way, I would say no . . ."  
"Oh, no." He answered quickly. Did he mean himself? "Some one that . .well, had known you a bit, and he well, what would you do if they said they loved you?"  
"If it were Mr. Stuntson, I'd smack him around a bit, then force his head between two doors and-"  
"Oh, don't get violent, Watson! Just answer the question; no, another person."  
Not many people knew me. Not Watson, not Stuntson. . .who else could it be?  
"Is this person here tonight?"  
Holmes sighed. "Yes, but he asked me to ask you."  
I started to laugh, holding my sides.  
"What?" He asked me calmly.  
"That sounded like . .James . .in eight grade, oh, forget it." I stopped laughing at the sudden realization; that only really left Holmes . . . Maybe I was overreacting.  
"I would say, umm, that I was flattered and-"  
" 'Flattered' . ." He looked like he was trying to remember all this.  
"Yes, and that, if this person is who I think they are, that I-I love them, too."  
He turned to me, "And would you mind if he kissed you?"  
I opened my mouth to answer as hand went over it.   
"I do believe she would say that that is very impolite and would slap you, Mr. Holmes." An amused voice from behind said. A gun went to my temple. If I weren't being held captive this guy would have had one finger less and no gun, dead, or the one with the gun on him. I couldn't do anything, I, unfortunately, was powerless.  
"And who are you?" Holmes said in complete calmness.  
"Some call me Professor Moriarty, while others, . . . . they call me Mr. Perrins."  
"And what do you want?" Holmes, don't lose your cool now.  
"I just want a few 'loose strings' snipped." He bumped the gun a little harder into my temple. Oh, that was going to leave a bruise.  
"I don't understand, Professor."  
"You know exactly what I mean. If the board got hold of information, saying that I was the one responsible for the death of my poor wife." He spat out the last to words. "She had more beauty than brains, except for when she wanted to use them. Nasty little wench, she was. Tried to get me framed for her suicide. But maybe this time, I should marry a woman of brains and beauty, what do you think, Olivia?" He hissed in my ear and took his hand off my mouth.   
"The name's Ms. Watson to you!" I screamed, grabbing the gun. "Holmes . .I'd . . move!" The esteemed professor went flying, his gun landing a few feet from him.  
"Thank you, Holmes, you helped quite a bit back there." I said sarcastically. Ow, I really pulled a muscle in my arm.  
"Well, I've learned that in some cases, women can take care of themselves. You are one of them."  
"Well, I think you. But Holmes, I really think we should get out of here."  
"No, wait, I have to tell you this." His back was the unconscious man, and he grabbed me by the shoulders. " I am the o-"  
Moriarty sat up and grabbed the gun. He aimed it for Homes' back. Spinning around, I pushed Holmes out of the way, and the bullet ended in my chest.   
Staggering, I sat down, and Holmes came over.  
"Oh my God," he whispered, "no, no, no, no, no, it wasn't supposed to be like this."  
"Holmes'," I grimaced. "Shut up, okay? I don't want to spend my last moments on earth hearing you lament, okay?"  
He smiled, did I actually see it, tears were in his eyes? "You repeated 'okay', you know."  
I weakly punched his arm, then looked at the ledge. "Oy, what a way to go out. Holmes?"  
"I'm here."  
"That's exactly what I want to thank Watson and you for; for being there."  
"Watson?"  
I couldn't answer, it was hurting too much.  
"Watson? Oh God, not Olivia, ple-"  
That's all I heard before blacking out.  
  
  
  
I sat up, gasping. Obviously in a hospital. And there was the nurse, she looked awfully like Krys. In fact, it was Krysten. I looked over at the side of my bed. A heart monitor! I was back, oh Mom, I don't care if I have no reason, I thought to myself, I'm calling you anyway, even if you ask if I'm wearing long underwear.  
"Livie? Livie! You're awake!" Krysten flew from her seat to hug me. I didn't respond. If I was here, that meant it was all a dream. All of that, a dream? That was too much.  
"Whe-when did I get here?"  
"Yesterday, your car went over the side of the bridge and . . . . you don't remember?"  
I shook my head. "Not really."  
"Well, somehow, even though you should actually be at the bottom of that damn water, you're alive. That ankh kinda comes in handy, huh?"  
"Yeah," I said softly, "when do I go home?"  
"Doc said he just has to see ya, and then he'll let you know. BTW, I'm going down to the cafe, want anything?" Leave it to Krysten Marianson to be able to think about anything not related to what was at hand. For a twenty-five year old, sometimes she was just a little immature.  
"Nah, I think I'll take a shower. I know how to handle the IV."  
As soon as she left, I clumsily made my way to the shower, the water felt relaxing on that pulled muscle.  
"Wait a second." I whispered to myself. I looked in the mirror. As well as having the pulled muscle, there was a bruise the size of the gun on my temple.   
It was real, it was all real. I started to dance a bit, then stopped. It wasn't. When a body is injured during sleep, it creates something in the dream to rectify for it. And that's what happened. All of it.  
"I'd always have that dream," I told myself.  
I started to pack my things, knowing that if a nurse came in she'd make a fuss. *Maalesh* for them.  
"Hey! Me back!" Krys plopped her self in to one of the chairs. "By the way, you got a call while you were out falling off a bridge; it was the Sherlock Holmes Museum in London. They said that they had stuff that belonged to your great great great . . ." she ticked them off on her hand, ". .I can't remember all of them. But they called, said you should come and get it. In fact, they have two tickets in first class waiting for you to pick up. Come on, Livie, ol' buddy, who's your friend?"  
I ran into the bathroom and changed, unplugging the IV form my hand. "Come one, Marianson," I called over my shoulder as I left, "the game's afoot!"  
  
  
  
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Okay, peeps, now's the part when you review like crazy because this was the last chapter and u want an sequel. Dontchya? I have some ideas in my head, but I could always use some advice! Tata, luvs! 


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